


Reinvent Love

by tess_genor



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Flirting, Historical References, Homosexuality, M/M, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21755149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tess_genor/pseuds/tess_genor
Summary: I've seen so many works with Aziraphale and Oscar Wilde and I thought well Crowley should get a famous writer too and settled on the French Surrealist poet Arthur RImbaud. I found Rimbaud from the Pretty. Odd. album and Rimbaud was rumored to have had a troublesome affair with the poet Paul Verlaine. Reading through Rimbaud's work "A Season In Hell" gave me the idea that Crowley trying to work through his troubles with Aziraphale had an effect on how Rimbaud processed his troubles with Verlaine. Thus "Reinvent Love" was born. I'm using the Paul Schmidt 1976 translation. I've never worked with the poem in an academic sense so all intrepetations are either mine or based loosely off the wikipedia page. I'm going to try my best to stay as historically accurate as possible. Please enjoy this little passion project of mine.I will update tags with each chapter I post.
Relationships: Crowley (Good Omens)/ Arthur Rimbaud
Kudos: 3





	Reinvent Love

**Author's Note:**

> When Crowley woke up in 1832 he was assigned as a sort of infernal guardian demon for a young boy. Crowley finally meets the boy and learns that he is the Surrealist poet Arthur Rimbaud. Crowley is tasked with ensuring that Rimbaud publishes his work "A Season In Hell".

It was noon. The twelve chimes from Big Ben had awoken the sleeping demon. Crowley groaned. He was up, there was nothing he could do about it now. Sighing, he headed for the bathroom. As he moved to open the door, he noticed that the floor had sunk and there was a gap between the floorboards and the door. Turning he looked at the ashy, empty pots where his plants once sat.

_How long have I been asleep?_ he wondered.

Throwing on a long coat and a simple hat he stepped outside. He knew it was noon, but it was so dark, darker than normal. As Crowley strained his head to the sky he saw the massive smoke stacks pumping the air with dark clouds. _That will do it_. Crowley was all for advancement, but the pollution killed him, if he could be killed that is.

Crowley performed a quick demonic miracle and found enough money in his pocket to purchase a newspaper. It was more than he remembered it costing. Finding the nearest stand he gave the man the money and snatched up the paper, not bothering to exchange the polite conversation that was socially required. Truthfully, after sleeping for some extended period of time, Crowley did not trust his voice to come back. On the way back to the flat he checked the date on the paper, October 20th, 1832.

Only a few decades, he thought, _I can go back to sleep_.

Arriving back in his flat, Crowley miracled the dust clear from the bed and climbed in. Just as he felt himself relaxing enough to drift off, he heard the sound of the front door unlocking. Crowley mumbled, trying his best to regain his voice. He sat up waiting for the uninvited visitor to make himself known.

”Crowley!” Bugger it was Hastur. “Head office Downstairs sent me!”

”Yes, I very well figured. What news do you have for me?” Crowley was not in the mood for a new assignment, in fact, he was actually in the mood for another decade long nap.

”Oh don’t sound so upset. It would have gone to someone else since you’ve been ‘out of commission’ due to your strange need for sleep. But the office saw that you had clocked in two miracles and decided that you were back to work.” Hastur eyed the dusty apartment. “I do love what you’ve done to the place, reminds me of Hell.”

”That wasn’t the idea.” Crowley stood up, mentally kicked himself for the miracles, and walked over to the alcohol cabinet. He poured himself a drink and specifically decided against offering one to Hastur. “What’s the Temptation?”

”It’s not a temptation. In exactly twenty-two years a child will be born. He’s going to be a funny one, already destined to join our Master.” Hastur always felt the need to give a back story rather than just hand over the file.

”Don’t see why you need me if this poor soul is already damned.” Crowley felt for this kid, he wouldn’t wish the experience of Hell on anyone.

”You got to let me finish. He’s destined for our lot, but there’s a final straw that’ll make sure we get him. He’s going to write a book of some sorts. It’s going to be rubbish to understand, but it’s important that he writes it. And that it gets published. Can’t have no one see the thing.” Hastur finally handed over the file, it was pretty large, Crowley would have to read it at some point, but he still had a couple decades to sleep.

Grabbing the file, Crowley threw it on the nightstand and sat back down on the bed. “Alright, Hastur, you delivered the file, you can leave now.” Crowley needed him to go, he was losing precious time to sleep.

”You have to sign off on the file first. It’s a new rule since you’ve been… out of practice.” Hastur struggled to find his words. What he meant to say was _It’s a new rule since you decided you didn’t want to pull your weight anymore as the sole earth correspondent_ , but he decided against it.

Crowley signature was a mess, Hastur shrugged and called it good enough. A small grey cloud of smoke and Hastur had vanished from Crowley’s flat. Crowley used a demonic miracle to ensure that he would wake up in twenty-one years time to ensure he had enough time to read through the file and be present for the kid’s birth.

Crowley read the file. It was more on the boy’s family than the boy himself. Father was a military captain who was kind hearted. His mother, from an aristocratic family, was sharp and withdrawn. The kid would have some semblance of a normal life despite his parents each calling themselves a widow and a widower respectively, even while their spouse was still alive. The boy would be baptized, which would make it harder for Hell to claim this one, yet not impossible. Overall, the boy’s life was nothing spectacular. Then Crowley read on.

The boy was to be a poet. Crowley cursed. Anything literary at all just reminded him of the book-loving angel who he was currently avoiding. Not only was the boy to be a poet, oh no, he was going to have a troublesome relationship with another _male_ poet. Closing the file, Crowley laughed at himself. Of course he would get assigned a case that would torture him. Crowley finished the file a few days later and made plans to work as a part time servant at the boy’s childhood home just so he would then have access to the christening. Everything was going without a hitch.

Once the boy’s family had moved Crowley stopped working for them but continued to stay awake, as much as he loathed, and kept quiet tabs on him. Crowley wasn’t instructed to interfere with the boy’s life more than the book so he just watched, not that he cared either way. Crowley had taken up gardening again and was still quite fond of it.

Time had passed rather quickly for Crowley, happy to once again do something that he enjoyed. He had almost forgotten about the young boy he was watching, almost. But he didn’t. Rather he couldn’t.

Hastur had appeared once again, unannounced and uninvited. Reminding Crowley of his position and the task at hand. Not that Crowley wasn’t already aware.

”Crowley, there’s one more thing,” Hastur began and Crowley rolled his eyes. There always was a catch when Hastur was delivering news, “This job, once completed, will be cleared from all records and you are not to speak about it. Hell will not only deny your involvement, but will outwardly deny any involvement at all with the boy.” Hastur’s dead black eyes were emotionless as usual, but still the look he gave Crowley showed that this was not to be negotiated.

”I don’t understand. I was notified years in advance about this task, if it’s such a big deal then why are we hiding it? Wouldn’t Hell love to claim this?” Crowley was bewildered. Hell always loved a good brag, and some famous poet definitely qualified as bragging rights.

”Yeah, well since this lad is going to be baptized, Upstairs thinks they’re getting him. We want to give them the surprise of their lives when they find out he's one of ours. Plus, if it’s not on records they can’t send your counterpart to try to stop you.” Hastur spit once he was done talking. Crowley miracled Hastur’s spit clean. Hastur just spit again.

Crowley looked away at the mention of his counterpart, at the mention of Aziraphale. “Are you keeping tabs on Heaven’s earth correspondent?” Crowley was scared of the answer. Maybe Heaven and Hell already knew about their Arrangement.

”We tried, but the being was too boring. All he does is sit and eat and read. He’s no threat.” Hastur stopped for a beat and moved closer to Crowley. “Why? Should we?”

”Oh no!” Crowley nearly yelped. “Not at all. In fact, I rarely ever see him. Upstairs must have different methods for collecting souls than us.” He laughed nervously. Hastur stepped back.

”Right well, you need to head to the Port of London so you can accompany the boy on his way back to France. He’s taking a ship in four days. Better get a move on.” As quickly as he appeared Hastur vanished, leaving Crowley to mutter under his breath. He needed to begin packing.

Crowley decided on an average wardrobe and the story of working in a pub but looking for a change in scenery. It was simple enough to remember for himself and bland enough for anyone else to forget.

Crowley pulled a few strings to work in the cheapest pub closest to the port for the next few days. The day the boy’s boat was scheduled to leave a young man came into Crowley’s place of work. He was too skinny for his age and looked as though he was a moment’s notice from getting sick. He ordered gin, crossed his arms on the bar top, and rested his head. This boy was the one Crowley was here for.

”Sir?” Crowley’s voice was timid, unsure if the boy was sleeping or passed out, “I brought out some food for you as well.” Crowley gave a soft smile when the boy lifted his head.

”I’m afraid I don’t have the money to pay for the food…” The boy worried at his lip. Crowley ironically said a silent prayer that this next act wouldn’t drive the boy away and told him not to worry about the cost. Crowley said he would cover it and worse case scenario, the boy could pay him back later. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise and he quickly began to eat the food Crowley had set before him.

”What brings a young lad like you to this part of London?” Crowley’s natural charm worked out a coy smile. He saw the boy’s gaze linger on the glass Crowley was currently cleaning.

”My, uh,” the boy heistated. “My mentor and I lost funds. I’m headed back home to my mother.” Crowley only nodded in response.

”What I would give to leave this place.” Crowley wistfully dropped his chin to his hands. “But you said your mentor?” Crowley made sure to put enough emphasis on mentor that there was room for interpretation. “What was he teaching you?”

”I’m a poet, sir.” The boy was proud. _He should be_ , Crowley thought, _he worked hard to convince himself to be okay with the term_.

”A poet eh? You’re pretty young to be that educated.” Crowley teased the boy and won a small grin in return.

”Not that young, sir. I’m nineteen.” The boy sat up straighter, more to convince himself than Crowley.

”My apologies.” Crowley nodded and went off to help another patron. He only returned when he saw the boy gesture for his attention.

”I’m not a man to leave a debt,” The boy said. Crowley opened his mouth to argue but the boy just raised his hand to quiet Crowley. “You fed me, for free, with no questions asked. You say you want to leave London and that is exactly what I’m doing. Why don’t you join me back to my family’s home. There are plenty of places nearby that could use someone like you. Besides you might enjoy the change in scenery. I do hope you speak French.” The boys mouth formed a wry smile and his eyes twinkled.

”En fait je fais.” The language rolled easily off Crowley’s mouth. He just smirked at the boy’s reaction.

”Well, then you must accompany me on my journey to France. It’s the least I could do after your kindness.” The boy finished his drink and slid some money towards Crowley.

”Oh no, it was nothing. I don’t want to burden you or your family.” Even Crowley could hear the pathetic attempt at persuasion. Crowley refused to use a temptation, not on this fragile boy before him.

”Nonsense! Really, I’ll appreciate the company of a handsome man like you.” If Crowley didn’t know any better, he would say the boy fluttered his eyes at him. “Besides, it’s not smart for me,” a pointed look at Crowley, “someone who looks so young,” a flash of a smile, “to travel alone.” 

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright well I can’t argue about your safety. Let me settle some things and I’ll be ready to leave in an hour’s time.” The boy agreed and said that the two of them would meet back up at the pub.

Once the two met back up, the boy stretched out his hand calling for a handshake. Crowley’s hand met his.

”Sir,” the boy started, but Crowley interjected. “Please, call me Anthony.” The boy let out a laugh for the first time and Crowley felt his chest tighten. He already cared about the well being of this boy, job be damned.

”Well, Anthony, Arthur Rimbaud at your service. Pleasure to meet you.” The boy’s voice was lighter. “It’s a miracle you happened to work at the pub I went to.”

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. “I’d hardly call it a miracle, Arthur.”

In the distance the two heard the noise of a ship’s horn. It echoed off the buildings and turned their attention from each other to the port.

”I do believe our future is calling?” Arthur picked up his bag and Crowley did the same.

”Yes, I would say so.” Crowley led the way to the docks. He could already tell this boy, Arthur, was going to cause trouble. Crowley liked him.

**Author's Note:**

> The French translates to "As a matter of fact I do" but I used google translate so don't at me.   
> Updates will be sporadic like the rest of my works. If anyone has worked with Rimbaud before I'd love to hear your input.


End file.
